“Stop a minute,” said Buffalo Bill, as he passed a thoughtful hand over his brow. “I want to straighten something out. Rixton Holmes gave to Myra Wilton a letter purporting to have been written by her uncle. The letter refers to this will, and contains the same explanation as your letter. I thought when the letter was read to me that it was a forgery.” “My friend’s letter was genuine,” said Henson. “He had been doing business with Matt Holmes for years, and could not be deceived by a forgery.” “I reckon I was mistaken,” returned the king of scouts, “but my error does not change the situation. Rixton Holmes remains the villain and the murderer.” There was deep curiosity in Carl Henson’s expression. “I am very anxious to hear your story, Mr. Cody,” he said, “and, therefore, I will hurry on with mine. In the full belief that Rixton Holmes had written the letter which induced Miss Wilton to leave her home in Pennsylvania, that he meant to kill Matt Holmes and then force the girl to marry him in order that he might obtain possession of all the property, I started for the Canadian River country. As I rode away I could but admit that the villain had evolved a cunning plot. He might be accused of the murders, but there would be nothing but suspicion to urge against him. It could be proved that the shot that killed Jared Holmes in Taos was fired by Tom Darke, and the letter of Matt Holmes to my friend in Denver, as well as other circumstances, would seem to prove that the miner brother met his death at the same hand. Tom Darke had threatened to wipe out the whole Holmes brood.” “I believe he did so threaten,” said Buffalo Bill, as the young man paused, “but he was Rixton Holmes’ tool, all the same. I would give a good deal to know how the two fiends came together. Rixton Holmes must have been traveling under his Kansas alias when they met, or there would have been no deal. Tom Darke would have murdered his employer if he had learned that the man was a Holmes.” “I think you are right, Mr. Cody. Well, there is little more to tell; that is, for me to tell. My friend, Mr. Hickok, must bring the explanation to a close.” Wild Bill grunted, and Henson went on: “Two days out I met Mr. Hickok. I did not know him, but when he informed me that he was from Taos, and was acting temporarily as a deputy United States marshal and was on the trail of a murderer known as Lanky Tom Darke, I felt so pleased that I wanted to hug him. We talked a while, and then I asked his name. He blushed; yes, you did”—as the tall scout shook his head vigorously—“and said he had a fool name. Because he was the quietest individual in the West the boys had derisively named him Wild Bill. I gazed at him in amazement. Wild Bill! Who hasn’t heard of him and who hasn’t heard of you, Mr. Cody? I was fairly taken off my feet.” “You’ll be really taken off your feet and deposited in that ditch outside if you don’t let up,” spoke Wild Bill sharply. “Quit monkeying with me and talk sense.”